The Villains
by TitanTea
Summary: History is not black and white, and many who appear good aren't always saints. This is a very history oriented one-shot series that will be labeled as complete since I don't know when the next one-shot will go up. Feedback is welcome!
1. He is not a Child

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, end of story.**

 **edit: lol wasn't aware of the format changes, should be easier to look at now**

 **Chapter 1**

 **He is not a Child**

* * *

October 1793

Alfred was glad that Arthur had moved on from the American Revolution. He knew that there were very few people who could hold a grudge that long, especially since a nation's ideals and emotions are decided by its citizens. Luckily, humans, with their short lifespan (he tried not to think about the lifespan part too much), did not hold grudges for long, and Alfred soon had a good relationship with Arthur once again.

Francis, on the other hand, was a completely different story.

Arriving at Paris, Alfred really had no idea what to expect. He remembered all that Francis had done for him during his revolution. So when he heard of the French Revolution, he was ecstatic. They must have picked up the same ideals as he did. But then he had heard the news of what was actually going on in France. With King Louis XVI dead and the French Revolution in full swing, he didn't know how the Francis now was going to be like compared to the Francis he knew while he was still a colony. The change that swept the nation had completely caught him off guard, and even more shocking was how quickly everything changed.

The Francis he knew wouldn't send his own king to the guillotine, despite his incompetence as a leader.

Alfred had left the ship and the crew at the dock with orders to not leave the ship unless to restock or required to by any French officials. He felt that the men, who were all American, should be safe, but he could always be sure.

On the carriage towards Gouverneur Morris's house, the first thing he noticed about Paris was the people. The people here were all destitute. Back home in America, the people were generally of a middle class. Here, the people looked poor, like the beggars on the streets of Boston, and made up the majority of the people he saw. The second thing he noticed were the frightened and slightly suspicious looks in all of the people's eyes, as though they knew they were being watched.

Alfred knew why they were scared. In a letter that was sent to him by Gouverneur Morris, the current French government had eyes everywhere. The slightest offence against the government, whether it be being more moderate than others or referring to another with _monsieur_ , could lead to a person being dragged out of their homes and onto the guillotine. Alfred shuddered at the thought.

Alfred soon noticed that there was a great amount of sound coming from one of the squares in the city. A great mob of people were cheering and jeering at something. Every once in awhile, the noise would escalate, before dying back down again. And Alfred, being ever the curious one, wanted/needed to see what was going on.

"Si-Citizen, can you please stop the carriage?"

The driver replied, "Will you be getting off here?"

Alfred called back, "No. I'll be right back. Please wait for me here."

"Of course."

Alfred climbed out of the carriage and proceeded towards the square.

 **=a=a=a=a=**

Being only a few blocks away from the mob, Alfred was quick to make it to the square. But as he approached the mob, he started to few uneasy. A gut feeling was telling him to _go, get away, you don't want to be here_. Alfred, however, ignored it and asked one of the passing citizens in faulty french, " 'Scuse me. Can you tell me what's going on right now?"

The woman turned and stared at him, before replying with caution, "There are executions going on. There are executions daily."

Alfred reeled back in shock. "Executions!? _Daily!?_ "

"Yes. There are executions daily. You sound like a foreigner, but you should know this."

With that, the woman proceeded on her way. Another roar came from the crowd. Alfred, shaking slightly, turned towards the crowd and cautiously inched towards the crowd. He could see the guillotine now, in all its bloody glory. He had never seen a guillotine before. There were people shouting, jeering.

He could hear, ever so slightly over the crowd, footsteps climbing up wooden stairs. The noise was getting louder. Alfred stood on his toes, trying to get a glimpse over the mob of people. But as soon as the man got onto the platform, Alfred suddenly felt an alarming yet familiar tug in his mind and he fell back.

The man was an American.

"NO!"

Alfred angrily shoved through the crowd.

"STOP!"

There were many annoyed glances at his way. The man was being tied to a board.

"STOP! STOP! HE'S MY CITIZEN!"

The man was laid onto the guillotine.

"NO! HE'S AMERICAN! YOU CAN'T DO THIS, DAMN IT!"

His pleas and yells were drowned out in the crowd that was getting louder by the second.

"NOOOOO!"

The blade dropped. Blood spurted. The mob roared. Alfred screamed.

Alfred was left breathless as he felt the connection severe. Desperate to get away, he pushed his way out of crowd and started retching all over the pavement. This was sick. All of it. This was not the France he remembered.

Already another person was being led to the guillotine. This time it was a young woman, no older than 20.

Gasping for breath, Alfred staggered down the street, no longer willing to take place in this executi-no, murder. The sight of the man-his citizen-being guillotined replayed in his head over and over again. It was a horrible sight, and every time he closed his eyes, the scene only got clearer. His heart wrenched at the thought of the blade coming down. And the people saw this daily with support like a pack of savages. He was only vaguely aware of the moisture on his cheeks.

"Are you alright? Do you need a doctor?"

Alfred looked up, startled. He had reached his carriage already. The driver was looking at him concern, which was understandable. Alfred probably looked sickly, considering that was how he felt.

"I-I'll be fine. Let's just go. Please."

As the carriage pulled away, the crowd roared yet again.

 **=a=a=a=a=**

"Alfred!"

Alfred strided down the streets of Paris in a silent rage. He emitted an aura of coldness that drove most of the people on streets out of his way.

"Alfred! Please, calm down!"

Alfred whirled around and jabbed a finger into the chest of a startled Gouverneur Morris. "Mr. Morris-"

"Don't call me that! It's dangerous to say that!"

"-I can't allow this to go any further. Francis is taking this way too far! He's executed some of Arthur's citizens! He's even executing some of mine!"

"Exactly! Anyone arrested during this time will most likely be executed. If you provoke the National Assembly further, they may be prompted to execute all of its American prisoners tomorrow! You have to know that Robespierre has gone paranoid!" pleaded Morris.

Alfred retorted, "That's why I'm going to see Francis. There is a difference between the National Congress and Francis. I'm trying to appeal Francis right now. So unless you are coming with me to beat some sense into him, go away!" Alfred huffed angrily.

Morris was silent for a moment before he sighed in resignation, "I cannot stop you. But Alf-, America. Please, be careful."

Alfred smiled and replied, "I will. Thank you, Gouverneur."

 **=a=a=a=a=**

"FRANCE!"

All the men in the building jumped at the bang of the door and the sharp and boisterous voice that followed and resonated throughout the building. A young man marched into the room towards the personification of the French Republic. At the look on Francis's face, Maximilien Robespierre muttered, "Do you know this young man? He does not sound French."

France glanced over at his leader and sighed, "I will handle this."

Francis smiled and strolled over to greet Alfred. " _Amerique_ , what a surprise! I wasn't expecting you for a few days. If I had known, I would have had you come over to my home. It's been a few years. How have you-?"

Alfred grabbed Francis's jacket. The assembly collectively gasped and started muttering among themselves. Cutting Francis off, Alfred pulled him close and growled, "Cut the crap, Francis. I want a private audience. I'll be in your office."

Alfred released the stunned Francis and strided out of the main hall coldly.

 **=a=a=a=a=**

As soon as the young man left, the assembly broke out in commotion. Many of the men wondered who the young English-at least he sounded English-man was. But all of them knew that they would probably never know. The boy had just, by the looks of it, threatened their nation and would most likely be imprisoned the next day. And the day after, executed. However, Francis had other plans.

"Please give me a moment Maximilien. I will tend to the matter at hand," Francis said quietly.

Robespierre nonchalantly replied, "It is fine, citizen Bonaparte. I will have him arrested."

Francis shook his head. "No. This is not someone you can simply send to the guillotine. Doing so would be a declaration of war. That young man was America, so you cannot simply just kill him. He is like me, but still a child."

Robespierre contemplated this information before replying, "Alright. But you how our relationship with the new nation is right now. If you feel to need to be rid of him, do not hesitate to say so."

 **=a=a=a=a=**

A light rapping on the door alerted Alfred of Francis. Said Frenchman opened the door and came into the office before closing it again. "Good morning, Alfred. It has been a few years, hasn't it?"

"It has," Alfred replied in his rough french. "But I didn't come here for a family reunion." Francis noted that Alfred was speaking in a fairly formal and cold manner for such a cheerful nation. "I'm here regarding the arrest and execution of my citizens. Actually, I should include all of the people who have been arrested and have or are scheduled to be executed, based on what I have heard."

Francis regarded the young nation. Then he pulled out a chair and sat down across from Alfred. He was silent for a moment before asking, "Would you like a drink?"

In retrospect, Francis should've expected it. After all, he did take care of the child several times when Arthur wasn't around. Alfred brought down a fist on the table and utterly destroyed the poor desk. Paper flew everywhere, inkwells shattered and spilled ink all over the carpet, and there were splinters everywhere.

"Don't change the damn subject, Francis! I want my citizens back! You may be in the middle of a revolution, but leave my people out of it!"

Francis remained undeterred. "Your people underwent a revolution less than a decade ago. My people supported yours. I sent you much needed supplies, money and soldiers. Without my help, you would not have won your war. And this is how you repay me!? You act like a spoiled child. I helped you fight your revolution, yet you refuse to support mine. In fact, you even have the audacity to denounce it. Why do you no longer support me like I did you? Did we not have an agreement to aid each other?"

Alfred shouted back, "Well, not like this! I am no longer a child, Francis. I understand the world around me. My people were fighting against the monarchy. We were fighting for our independence. You may have helped me in my revolution, but you never fought for my independence. Hell, you never fought against the monarchy! You were fighting just to spite England! The guy you look up to so much, he's insane! He's a murderer! What you have right now is a massacre, a genocide, not a revolution! You killed your own damn king and queen when you could have easily exiled them. You forced the Marquis de Lafayette to flee from France, and I thought you regarded him as a hero! Can you no longer feel your own people!?"

Francis scoffed, "Necessary sacrifices, Alfred. Necessary sacrifices. They can no longer be regarded as citizens of France if they try to end the revolution. France can only be a republic with the death of the King Louis and Marie Antoinette and all of his rascals, which includes the Marquis de Lafayette. He may have been a hero, but he turned his back on France when France needed it most. He needed to go. Another thing, you may have gained your independence, but you do embody the true idea of revolution. You have done nothing for your slaves, who, despite your Declaration and Constitution, are not free. Your take on the Enlightenment ideals is weak." Francis snapped, "Never forget that I helped you with your revolution, _America_. I have every right to have my own. So unless you are here to help me in bringing liberty to my people, I have NOTHING MORE TO DO WITH YOU!"

Francis was panting by the end of his rant. Alfred stood frozen, with an unreadable expression. Alfred swallowed and murmured, "What happened to you, Francis? You aren't the same man I knew growing up."

Alfred walked to the door. Just before left, though, he stopped at the door frame and said, in an icy tone, "I'm not a child anymore. Good day, _Monsieur_ Bonnefoy."

With that, he strode out into the corridor, silently mourning the man he once called 'brother.'

* * *

 **Yay for history!**

 **This is my first story, so any comments, critiques, and advice is welcome.**

 **Please note that this will be a one-shot series, that will be sporadically updated, just to let you know.**

 **Also, many thanks to** bubblesodatea **, a good friend who offered to beta for me. Make sure to go check out her work!**

 **Historic notes:**

 **Yes, England did manage to have a good relationship with America after the war.**

 **The French Revolution started soon after the end of the Revolutionary War.**

 **King Louis XVI, the king of France prior to the French Revolution, was sent to the guillotine on January 21, 1793, which commenced the Reign of Terror, which is when this one-shot takes place.**

 **Gouverneur Morris was the American embassador in France during this time.**

 **America mostly held middle class citizens, compared to France which had mostly peasants.**

 **Executions in Paris during the Reign of Terror were held daily. Thousands of people, including some foreigners (mostly English), were sent to the guillotine, even for the slightest offence.**

 **France banned the term** _ **Monsieur**_ **, because it meant that someone was above you. The French Revolution started as a movement to end the unequal treatment of the peasants compared to the aristocrats and the royals.**

 **The National Assembly was one of the governing bodies during the French Revolution.**

 **Maximilien Robespierre was the leader of France during the Reign of Terror. He was an intelligent man, but grew paranoid of the idea of people trying to stop the French Revolution. He was one of the people who sent thousands of people to their deaths.**

 **The Marquis de Lafayette was a general in the American Revolution and was extremely popular among both the French and Americans. A firm believer in democracy from his time in America, he was one of the few nobles who agreed that the peasants should be treated equally. However, because he tried to aid the king, he was forced to flee to Belgium in 1792, where he was captured and turned over to Austria. There he was held in prison for five years.**

 **France and America had a rather rough relationship during the late 18th century and early 19th century.**


	2. She is a Prisoner in her own Home

**Chapter 2**

 **She is a Prisoner in her Own Home**

* * *

Note before we get started:

Kahambu - Belgian Congo (Modern DR of Congo)

Manon - Belgium

* * *

March 1912

Kahambu cried out as she felt the whip strike her back yet again. It had already been 10 lashes, yet she still wasn't allowed to fall into a blissful unconsciousness because of what she was. Her wounds burned like fire and a thousand bee stings.

Again and again the hippo-skin whip stung her skin, and again and again she cried out; she wasn't allowed to fall asleep, nor was she allowed to die. Kahambu cursed whatever divine being made it so that she had to be the one representing the land and the people of the Congo.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the last strike fell on her back. A man—a _white_ man—undid the ropes binding her arms and she was roughly pulled up. The man shouted something that she couldn't hear over the ringing and the pounding of blood in her ears. Her vision was littered with stars and the edges of her vision were fading from the pain. She had no energy to move her arms and legs, and they felt like lead.

She was shoved and she stumbled into the gentler arms of another, likely one of her own. This person, careful not to touch her back, gently helped her somewhere that she was unaware of. She was laid on a coarse cot on her stomach. Gentle murmuring soothed her and her tears of pain. Something cool was pressed onto her back and she was finally able to fall asleep from exhaustion.

 **=a=a=a=a=**

Her back, fresh with still-bleeding wounds screamed in protest, but Kahambu did not—could not—stop harvesting the rubber sap, otherwise she would be whipped again, or worse: have her hands cut off. Too many of her countrymen had fell victim to such treatment already. She saw many of them with stubs on their arms or whip lashes on their back. She glanced up at the despicable white men. They didn't have the right to enslave her people like this! They couldn't speak any of the many languages she knew: Instead, she was the one that was forced to learn the white men's language, an ugly language known as French.

The white men came from a land far away that they called Belgium. They came, "employing" men and women from her villages, and then treating them like slaves. Kahambu could feel the pain of her people, yet she couldn't identify the cause of their pain until they came for her. She could still remember the fateful day when white men came to the village she was staying in. They spoke with the chief, and tricked him into unknowingly selling her, and many of the people in the village, for merely some pieces of cloth. And from there, her time in hell began.

When Henry Stanley, a white explorer, first came to her land, she didn't know that he was here to claim the lands for the king. Maybe if she simply didn't allow him to go through the Congo, she wouldn't be where she was now.

She heard that the person behind her enslavement was a man named Leopold II, the supposed "king" of Belgium. _Hah!_ A real king wouldn't allow his people to treat others like this.

Furthermore, she heard stories of a young woman from the men. She had eavesdropped on the white men. From what Kahambu gathered, the woman was named Manon, who essentially was Belgium, much like how Kahambu herself was the Congo. Manon was supposedly a kind woman with a kindhearted personality. The white men described her as having a sweet voice, blond hair, and green eyes.

Kahambu could not understand why someone like Manon would allow such atrocities to happen, if she really was as nice as the men said. Why would she allow her king to kill, mutilate, and torture her? Why did she enslave Kahambu's people? Why? Why? Why?

Kahambu knew that Manon could not be the nice person that she heard stories about. Perhaps she was actually a devil in the form of a woman. Or maybe the kindness was merely a facade, and she really was an kongamato wearing a human's skin.

The men said that they needed this land for the sake of pride and glory, so that Belgium could be strong and respected. They called this imperialism, but the concept was foreign to Kahambu. All of the nations like Belgium apparently followed the idea of taking other countries for their own benefit. Could they not find their own land, or use their own resources? Why must they take the land that belonged to her and her brothers and sisters? What was the point of having this much land?

They believed her to be naive, stupid, and uncivilized. That wasn't the case. She wasn't ignorant to the horrors of the world. She could have easily learned about that the machines and weapons that the white men seem to rely on so much had they bothered to teach her. At the moment, she was easily more civilized than any of the white men on her land were right now.

Kahambu was abruptly awoken from her musings by the cries of a child. A young girl was being dragged across the camp by the white men towards the cutting board. Her mother was begging the men for her daughter, but was beaten aside and left lying on the dirt ground, tears streaming down her dark cheeks.

This was a daily scene. The first time it happened, Kahambu was punished badly for trying to stop it. She has since learned her lesson. However, every time Kahambu saw something like this happening, a little bit of her cracked. Today, that final blow was dealt, and she dropped her rubber when the girl's arms were forced down onto the cutting board.

Kahambu sprinted towards the white men despite her legs' protests and with roar, she tackled the man with the axe just before he brought it down on the poor child's hands, and began pounding her calloused fists into his face.

A blow to the side her head knocked her off the man she had attacked.. Before she could recover and get back up, another blow came down on her. She raised her arms above her head in an attempt to block the blows, but they proved useless as her arms were soon broken.

She started crying. She couldn't help it. The pain was too much. She could feel each blow being dealt to her break another piece of her. She could feel the agony that her people were going through. And she couldn't handle it. She was begging them to stop. Yet they would not stop.

She hated it. She hated everything about it. She hated Stanley for coming to her land and claiming it for another country, a country that wasn't even his. She hated the pain that every blow to her body came with. She hated the men that beat her. She hated the men that had practically bought and enslaved her people. She hated the rubber and ivory that she was forced to harvest. She hated being treated like a prisoner in her own home. She hated Leopold, who was the one who dealt her injuries. She hated the country of Belgium and she hated the idea of Imperialism. And most of all, she hated Manon, for allowing all of it to happen.

She was dragged to the cutting board, still weeping. She screamed as the ax came down on her hands.

* * *

 **Weee! Another chappie up! A bit of a short one. I know this is probably not something that most people were expecting, but I had a rather large reserve of info on me, so I might as well put it to use. But not to worry! I've currently written out several more chapters on paper (maybe we might see some Russia, or France, or Spain, or Japan. Who knows?) that I will be transferring and editing soon.**

 **Once again, thank you to my awesome beta,** bubblesodatea **, who this time taught me a little bit about formatting. (And screamed at me about spaces :))**

 **Historical Notes (Aw geez, where do I start):**

 **The Belgian Congo was a colony of Belgium from 1908 - 1960. They were taken by King Leopold II, also known as "The Butcher of Congo," because of the atrocities he committed when he colonized the Congo.**

 **There were many terrible things that happened in the Belgian Congo before the Belgian government seized the Congo from Leopold, who covered it up with the story of colonizing in order to bring religion to the Congolese. The Congolese would have to harvest things like rubber sap, ivory, and other resources. If they did not fulfill a daily requirement, they could be beaten, whipped, or have their hands cut off.**

 **Leopold never once stepped in the country of Congo, which is why here, Belgium never makes an official appearance.**

 **The person who signed the treaty between Leopold and the Congolese chiefs was none other than a British man named Henry Stanley, the one who found Dr. David Livingstone. He was actually not told that Leopold was going to claim the lands, who had approached him under the disguise of an international scientific and philanthropic organization.**

 **A kongamato is a type of monster from Congolese legends. It attacks humans that provoke it and resembles a pterodactyl.**

 **Imperialism, which was very prominent in the late twentieth century, is a policy in which a state extends its power and influence on another state (one good example is with Great Britain and India.)**


	3. He is Alone Even With his CountryMen

**Chapter 3**

 **He is Alone Even with his Countrymen**

* * *

November 1812

Another man behind him fell down in the snow, and he didn't get back up.

But Francis couldn't afford to stop for the man. Any dead or injured had to be left behind ―they didn't have the supplies to waste or else they wouldn't make it out of Russia.

Francis looked ahead at Napoleon—Napoleon, the proud and arrogant man who once rode a mighty white stallion, was now reduced to a shivering, spiritless husk riding a donkey.

When his army had first invaded Russia, he had every bit of confidence that Russia would become part of the French Empire. Ivan, however, clearly had other plans. For several months, Francis had chased after Ivan, slowly making his way towards Moscow, but Ivan was smart. His army had burned down their own fields and slaughtered all of the livestock. There was no food for Napoleon's troops in Russia, and thus many of them starved. To make things worse, Russian soldiers constantly attacked them along their path. Francis had to be alert. Ivan could attack at any time and be gone before any of the soldiers could react, leaving dozens dead in his wake.

The trek to Moscow was in vain. Moscow was burned to the ground and there were no Russians in sight. There was little shelter and almost no supplies available for the French troops as previously planned. With the cold weather setting in and supplies dwindling, the frustrated and tired troops were forced to turn back towards Western Europe. They were ill prepared for Russia's strongest ally, General Winter.

Francis helplessly watched as thousands upon thousands of his people died. He could feel his connection to each and everyone of the men severe as they died, many of which were still young and haven't done enough with their life. The cold, hunger, disease, exhaustion, and the Russian's constant attacks took lives every single day.

By now, of the original overwhelming number of 400,000 troops he came to Russia with, only about 30,000 remained, and even that number was falling by the minute.

Francis winced as he heard another man behind him fell, never to get up again.

"General."

Napoleon turned and faced Francis, his pallor ashen and dead from exhaustion and misery. Francis continued speaking.

"We should stop. The day is ending and the men are tired. I'm certain that if we continue, we will only lose more people."

Napoleon contemplated this, grimly glancing at the darkening horizon. Without turning back towards Francis, he replied, "Of course, Francis. You are right."

Napoleon called a halt and a feeling of relief washed over the crowd. Francis ran towards the man, but he knew it was hopeless. His fears were confirmed when he pressed his ear onto the man's chest. Sighing, he stood up and went over to one of the carts and wordlessly helped pitch some tents. He fumbled with the ropes, his hands numb and clammy from the cold.

He continued to do so until someone above him announced,"Sir, some food."

Francis looked up to see a young man, clearly tired and hungry, with a bowl of hot soup made with some moldy bread and potatoes. Francis was glad this man was young and hardy. He would hopefully survive this winter.

Francis waved the boy off. "I don't need it. Save it for someone who will starve otherwise."

"But sir—"

"I _insist_."

This time, Francis put some of his influence as a nation into his voice to convince his citizen. The young man's eyes widened marginally, before he nodded and proceeded to find someone else to give the soup to. As the boy left, Francis heard a pair of heavier footsteps approach him. A deep voice spoke.

"You should eat, you know."

Francis chuckled and replied, "I do not need to eat, dear Napoleon."

Napoleon sat down next to Francis and forcefully replied, "But you should eat, Francis. Just because you do not need to, it doesn't mean you shouldn't. You are growing thin and tired. You need to eat."

Francis snorted. "Perhaps, but I am immortal as long as France exists. If I can save another mortal man's life with my food, then I would be more than willing to give it up."

"And your horse. And your cloak. And your gloves. For goodness sakes, Francis. You are our nation, you have every right to demand them." Napoleon pleaded.

"I told you. I would readily give—"

 _BANG!_

The boy from before fell without a word, bowl of soup still in hand and dead before he hit the ground. Panic swept through the crowd like a wave.

"It's the Russians!" Francis heard someone scream. "Look, in the trees!"

 _BANG! BANG! BANG!_

Every able man made for their rifle. Francis felt his army quickly descend into chaos. The French, tired, cold, and unprepared, were quick to fall to the Russians, who were dressed in warm fur coats and had the advantage of surprise. There were blood curdling screams and gunshots and men tripping over their fallen comrades. The Russians had immediately began to slaughter the French, stabbing, yelling, and shooting.

There was one specific Russian, who was clearly stronger than the others, who barreled through the soldiers. Francis was instantly on guard and just managed to raise his weapon when the Russian charged him. Francis caught him with his bayonet and struggled to push him back.

" _Здравствуйте,_ Francis."

Francis desperately stabbed at the Russian with his bayonet, who easily side stepped the blade.

"I am surprised that you still haven't made it out of Russia."

Francis took a whack to his leg before replying, "Well, I could get out of your hair faster if you would leave me alone, Ivan."

Francis's bayonet barely grazed Ivan's arm, only causing a small tear in the fabric of his thick, woolen jacket. Francis glared up at the taller man and spat out his next words.

"You know it's cowardly to attack a retreating enemy."

Ivan elbowed Francis in the side, who stumbled a bit. Ivan smiled and replied, "Hm, I suppose that is the perfect way to describe you."

Ivan caught Francis in a choke hold.

"I shall _enjoy_ slowly killing you, Francis."

Francis angrily rammed his head into Ivan's and shouted back, "Well, I do not plan to die here! I am the mighty French Empire, so I will not fall!"

Ivan staggered back and grinned in response and replied, "I beg to differ."

With that, Ivan slammed his boot into Francis's stomach. Francis crumbled, his breath knocked out. But just before he stood up again, he felt cold metal go through his chest.

Time froze. Ivan was smiling cruelly and Francis was in a state of shock. All that Francis could feel was cold. Then Ivan yanked his bayonet out of Francis's chest and time resumed. Francis's world exploded in pain, but not a single sound left his lips. He dropped to his knees and fell forward into the slushy snow. He painfully gasped for air and his eyes lost focus as if he were a fish out of water. Ivan chuckled and kicked Francis in the ribs for good measure.

"This is what you get for thinking you could defeat me."

 **=a=a=a=a=**

Francis lay bleeding out on the ground. The snow around him was stained red and brown from blood and dirt. There were dozens of dead bodies on the ground.

Soldiers were hurriedly milling around, helping those who would live and bandaging small wounds. However, those who were dead or whose wounds were too large were left on the ground. Francis was among them.

Francis desperately wished to go home. He wanted to see the streets of Paris and the halls of Versailles again. He wanted to walk through the fields and grapevines and the cottages in the countryside. He wanted to taste fine wine and feel the sun on his skin. He wanted a bath and new clothes and to be able to sleep without repercussion.

More than anything though, he wanted to see a friendly face. He wanted to see sweet Manon and to chat over dinner with the Vargas brothers. He wanted to see Matthieu and Alfred, and how much they have grown over the years.

However, in the snow, in the middle of Russia, his hopes of doing so were quickly dwindling. Maybe he might get captured by Ivan and he might never see the light of day again. Maybe he might freeze in the Russian tundra indefinitely. Or maybe he really will die, despite being a nation. Francis couldn't help but feel alone, despite being surrounded by his fellow countrymen. He was tired. He was miserable. And he was very, very cold.

As Francis closed his tired, cloudy blue eyes, it started snowing.

* * *

 **Yooooo. I'm back with another France one, but from the flip side. I had particular fun writing this one, except that it turned out much shorter than initially planned.**

 **Once again, thanks to** bubblesodatea **for betaing. Make sure to check out her works! (Bubble: YEAH DO THIS FAM i'm HIP AND COOL)**

 **I already have a few more chapters that are handwritten. And I'm so sorry for the long delay. That's why this story is permanently labeled as complete, afterall!**

 **Translation Notes (Sorry for any errors, this is from Google Translate):**

 _ **Здравствуйте**_ **\- Hello**

 **Historic Notes:**

 **Napoleon was the emperor of France following the French Revolution, so during the early 19th century. He campaigned for France to become an empire by taking over multiple countries, such as Prussia, Spain, and Austria-Hungary (albeit Spain defeated France).**

 **General Winter is not just a Hetalia thing. It is a legit name for the Russian winter.**

 **Napoleon's invasion of France was from June 24 - December 14, 1812. It is widely considered to be one of the most fatal campaign's in history, as of the some 422,000 men who invaded, only 10,000 came out alive. This was in part due to the cold (the French did not anticipate the potential weather), exhaustion, famine, and attacks by the Russians.**

 **The Russians, in order to fight the French, used the scorched Earth policy, which is basically where everything in an army's path is burned down. This left Napoleon's force with no food or supplies along the way. Most of Moscow was burned down and abandoned by the Russian forces in order to prevent Napoleon from capturing Russia's capital, and they constantly hit-and-run the French army.**

 **The image of Napoleon mentioned at the beginning of the story is a rather famous painting called** _ **Napoleon at Saint-Bernard Pass**_ **. It was painted by Jacques-Louis David. (The mule image is also a legit painting, but it is ridiculously hard to find a picture of the painting)**


End file.
